


What He Did for Them

by LuminiaAravis



Series: No Place Like Home [2]
Category: The Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Coming of Age, Depression, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Male Slash, Non-Graphic Violence, Old Age, Older Characters, Painkillers, Permanent Injury, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Canon, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Worth Issues, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminiaAravis/pseuds/LuminiaAravis
Summary: Trism had been on both sides of the same conflict, and had somehow managed to choose the wrong side both times. He’d loved and lost, and loved again and lost again. He’d been broken and repaired one time too many, he thought.Trism has begun living his new life as the head of the Emerald City PD in the city's roughest neighborhood. But maybe staying in Southstairs would have been the better option.
Relationships: Trism bon Cavalish/Liir (Wicked)
Series: No Place Like Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008036
Comments: 15
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarchived](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchived/gifts).



> Greetings, dear Reader! I'm so glad you've found my story! You should know that this all will make VERY little sense if you haven't read "Part 1: What They Did to Him." If not, that's cool! Part 2 isn't going anywhere, and I hope to see you back here soon! 
> 
> Cheers,  
> -Lu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there's SO MUCH I COULD say about this story, but I'm gonna try and keep my notes short and sweet.
> 
> Firstly, I know a lot of Maguire fics based on the books tend to be imitative or stylistically consistent of his work. He has a very distinct style and voice, and in this story I'm using that as an inspiration, but I have my OWN voice and style that I want to stay true to.
> 
> Secondly, this is absolutely going to be one of those "Liir and Trism should have been together at the end!" stories. It was originally gonna be quite short, but it kind of grew into its own narrative. I want to take the time and tell the story because it's important to me to let characters grow and change, to go through difficult events and come out the other side, maybe learn something, maybe get some closure.
> 
> Maguire is a MASTER at not giving his characters closure, which is just completely devastating and fantastic to me because in real life, closure doesn't just happen - but stories don't often dare to be that real. So I understand that, and frankly, that's one of the reasons he's my favorite author, because there's something about the way Maguire just holds up a mirror and says "Look, this is as real as it gets" enchants me and breaks my heart all at once - but at the same time, I have something of my own to say on the matter.
> 
> Thirdly, I'd like to thank the fabulous and supportive Anarchived, to whom I've gifted this story. I've had the unique privilege of having known her since middle school, and I'm truly, TRULY thankful for all the writing we have done and will continue to do together! She inspires me to stay positive, persevere, and not to take myself so goddamn seriously! This whole thing would have floundered and gone belly-up without her. She is my sounding board, my abat-voix. Everything I write rings truer and sweeter when it's echoed back through her.
> 
> So I hope y'all are ready to follow Trism through the next phase of his life, through all the wins and losses, as he trudges on.
> 
> Cheers,  
> -Lu

Trism watched the boys scuffle in the training yard. Private Jeames tackled private Thormot and held him down so private Chawne could snort boogers in Thormot’s face. He knew they were only joking, but he couldn’t help but flinch every time one of them took a sucker punch to the stomach. Or had his arm friction-burned. Or got tripped and fell face-first into the mud and melting snow. 

Because _Trism_ had been punched in the stomach so many times he’d thrown up. _Trism_ had been tripped and dragged along behind the wagon on his face for miles, unable to right himself. _Trism_ had been held down and pissed and spit on. And he could still feel deeply every trauma they had inflicted upon him, he felt them renewed as he watched them repeated. So that when Trism witnessed the boys tormenting poor Thormot, it was as if they were tormenting him, too. 

What if they had a mind to do it again? he thought. How many times a day did Trism put himself within arm’s reach of any of them? If they wanted, they could beat him to death right there in the training yard and nobody would be there to stop them.

Trism started wearing the revolver under his cloak everywhere he went. He kept it loaded. 

Trism took very little joy in retraining the Sons of Shiz. Although he liked to think he’d scared a little sense into them on their first day, they were still a remarkably rowdy bunch of young men. Every time he turned his back, they took it as a cue to get out of formation and chit-chat and carry on. Astounding the trouble they could get themselves into in under a minute. Play-wrestling, singing obscene songs, and generally making a mess of the training yard.

Then there was the issue of actually getting them to follow his orders. It wasn’t as if they ever outright refused to cooperate with him — it was more a matter of how they went about it that was the problem. If Trism asked for fifty push-ups, he usually got forty-five. If he ordered the boys to run laps around the block double-quick, they did the laps, but they took their sweet time about it.

And Saffrin wasn’t helping. Every time Trism gave an order, every single time, the boys looked to him before obeying. If Saffrin only felt like doing forty push-ups, the entire company only did forty. If Saffrin felt like taking a leisurely jog, the rest of the boys matched his pace. If Saffrin didn’t feel like giving Trism his full attention, then none of the boys did, either.

At first Trism marked it up to a peculiarity that the boys would grow out of once they got used to his command. But they hadn’t so far. He tried everything he could think of just short of taking a cane and giving them all a good whupping. Trism made them do extra drills. He made them stay late and clean the station-house. He made them stand at attention in complete silence for nearly two hours, once, just so he could get some goddamn peace and quiet, but even that turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. He had to spend the entire two hours in the training yard with them, making sure that nobody snickered or snorted, nobody tried to whisper a message to the boy next to him, nobody moved out of formation.

It was difficult for Trism to stay on his feet that long anymore. But he’d be damned if he let it show.

Saffrin wasn’t the main problem — he wasn’t necessarily any better or worse behaved than the rest of them — but Trism realized early on that if he was to lead the Sons of Shiz, he’d have to win over Saffrin first. And although Saffrin was generally very amiable when Trism interacted with him directly, he still carried a smug, superior attitude around with him everywhere he went. He had said he wanted to learn, wanted to change — but he wasn’t getting any closer to giving up the power he held over his comrades. He was still their leader in all but name.

Trism explained all this to Sister Helper one evening over a modest beef stew. She thought it over while she chewed. “You know, we have a similar problem when we place orphaned or abandoned children with new families.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

“It can take a while for the new parents to establish a relationship with kids that they’ve taken in. Especially if the kids are a little bigger, or if they’re used to seeing another child, like an older sibling, as an authority figure instead of an adult. They encounter all kinds of discipline problems, they don’t listen, they throw temper-tantrums, they break things, they hurt other children, sometimes they try to run away, and the ones who have suffered really severe abuse can’t always figure out how to trust again.”

“That’s all well and good, but I’m not raising children. I’m trying to train a unit of soldiers.”

“Well, didn’t you say a lot of them are under eighteen?”

“Yes, nine of them, I think. And of those, seven are conscripts.”

“So imagine how young they must have been when they were taken away from home.”

Saffrin was seventeen, and he’d been in the service for five years. He must have been no older than twelve when he’d been abducted and shipped out, no bigger than little Ewan was now. Shit, maybe Trism _was_ raising children.

“Just what in the fresh hell am I supposed to do about it?” Trism asked.

“Show them they can trust you,” Sister Helper said. “Small acts of radical kindness can go a long way.”

“Radical kindness?” Trism snorted. “I’m actually sort of flattered that you think I have that kind of patience.”

“ _Yes_ , radical kindness,” Sister Helper said. “It’s not that difficult, Tris. It can be as simple as — like when you first came in and I washed your face. You remember?”

He remembered it all too well. How an innocent, loving touch had broken through the layers of sweat and dirt and excrement, through all the matted hair and whatever was left of his clothes, how she had pierced his heart with just her hands and a bowl of water, how she’d gotten him to cry when he hadn’t been sure he still could. “I do,” Trism said. 

Sister Helper reached out and held his hand. “Little things like that can do a lot for people who struggle with feeling safe and trusting others. People who view kindness as transactional, people who believe that someone’s only being nice to them because they want something in return. You need to show your boys that you can be kind just for kindness’ sake, that you care about them. They’ll come to trust you when they’re ready.”

“But I can’t afford to wait for them to catch up, they’re slower than molasses in winter. They need to be ready to go in three weeks. _Three weeks!_ And then they’re out among the general public, unsupervised for the most part, Unnamed God help them. I don’t care if they’re comfortable sharing their feelings with me — I’d actually prefer if they kept it to themselves. All I need them to do is follow simple orders, and they can’t manage even that much.”

Sister Helper frowned. “Why are you so averse to the idea of getting to know them a little better?”

“Because they’re nasty little cretins, every one of them. And I didn’t sign up to be an emotional counselor. I’m a military man, and as a rule we don’t kiss and tell.”

“ _I_ think it’s because you’re still angry with them.”

Trism laughed derisively. “Me? Angry? What reason do I have to be angry?”

“Come on, stop it. You’re being an ass.”

“Maybe I am. But after what the stupid bastards did to me, I think I’m entitled.”

“Entitled?”

“Yes, entitled. To the best of my knowledge, anger is the natural response towards someone who’s hurt you. What, am I supposed to go up to them first thing tomorrow morning and give them all big, sloppy hugs?’

“No, but you might start thinking about forgiving them.”

“Really. You think I should forgive them.”

“Are they sorry?”

“They say they are, but it’s hard to believe by the way they’ve been acting lately. They’re all still under the impression that this whole thing is some kind of game that they can opt into or out of at their pleasure.”

“And is that an offense against you, personally?”

“Yes, it is!” Trism said. “It’s an offense to my authority and my knowledge and my experience as an officer. Not to mention it’s downright shitty, the way they carry on while I’m broke and stuck in a job I hate. It makes me want to jump off a cliff.”

“But does their behavior offend you, _personally_?”

“It — well, it doesn’t offend me so much as it aggrieves me.”

“And why does it aggrieve you?”

“Because — oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I feel like if they don’t respect me now that I’m in full possession of myself, they never will.”

“And _are you_ in full possession of yourself, Trism?”

He paused. “No. I’m not. Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still angry! Is that your way of circling back to make your point?”

“Maybe. But why are you angry?”

“Because I keep getting hurt. Life keeps trying to fuck me.”

“And why are you hurting?”

“Dammit, woman. The government inquest I sat through was less invasive than this.”

“Why are you hurting?”

“Because I always end up alone!" Trism stood up suddenly, knocking his chair back. “Because every fucking time I try to get close to someone, even a _little_ , they get snatched the fuck away from me at the last moment, and when I finally find the balls to do the right thing and go after them, this is what I get.”

Trism tugged at his collar and exposed the cautery scars on the left side of his neck and clavicle.

“I’ve seen those before, Tris,” Sister Helper said, calmly. “They don’t scare me anymore.”

“Well, good for you,” he said, “because they still scare the fuck out of me.”

Trism righted his chair, helped Sister Helper with the dishes, and sat back down to enjoy two tiny cups of custard for dessert. 

“Tris?”

“Mm?”

“Are you afraid of losing the people you’re close to now?"

“What a loaded question. I’m really only close to you, you know."

“You’re sweet, but you’re not making me feel any better about you living alone.”

“It’s not all bad,” he said. “For all my moping I’m actually decently well-off. I have a roof over my head and get at least one good meal a day.”

“But you’re still lonely,” she said.

“Yes. I am. Although I’m not as worried about losing you as I thought I’d be,” he mused.

“No?”

“No,” he replied. “I thought I’d crack up if I had to go out into the world alone, start from scratch _yet again_ , but I’ve been holding it together so far. Not to say I don’t miss you, of course.” 

She smiled. “Of course.”

They ate in silence for a few more minutes. 

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Sister Helper continued, “but what I was trying to say earlier is that the whole emotional trust thing goes both ways. With your men, I mean. If they come to trust and accept you, maybe you’ll be able to trust and accept them. And then maybe you won’t be so lonely anymore.”

“Sure. And we’ll braid each other’s twat hairs and talk about boys.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

“I’ll knock it all I want, because I’m still not interested in trying.”

Sister Helper bit her lip. “Well, it wouldn’t be an _enormous_ leap of faith, would it? The boys probably already know you better than you think.”

“I _know_ they do. And that’s precisely why I’ll never let them get that close to me again.”


	2. Chapter 2

There were only two weeks left until the Sons of Shiz had their first day on the job. If Trism had had his way, he’d have kept them all in basic training for _at least_ another six months. He was nowhere close to breaking any of them. He still couldn’t trust them to do as they were told.

He completely and utterly lost his patience with them. He called them every name he could think of. He swore at them, he yelled at them until he was hoarse and dizzy with the effort. They trained by the light of torches and lanterns, often staying out until well after sunset, past the hour when the meltwater on the ground froze solid for the night. They didn’t pause for lunch or for supper. Trism kept the boys as long as he was physically able to stay outside in the yard with them, until he was light-headed from hunger and so stiff he could hardly move, until his hands and feet and his entire left arm were numb.

The boys themselves bore the training quite well. They were already in very good physical shape, and it wasn’t difficult for them to stay up and active for ten hours at a stretch or to hold off on toilet breaks and meals all day. They were still pretty well used to it all, even though the war had ended nearly a year and a half ago by now. And, on the occasion that one of the lads fell behind or caught chill, the others always came to his aid with a slap on the back, with words of encouragement, with an offer of “Here, take my coat for a bit.”

Trism’s other uniforms still hadn’t come in. He bought a cheap straight-razor and cut himself shaving like he was some inexperienced teenager. The price of coal was through the roof, so he burned old files from the office downstairs to keep warm at night. He woke up aching every morning, more tired than he had been before he’d gone to bed.

The station-house looked passable after all the extra hours of dusting and scrubbing and tidying the boys had done. The windows were free of grime, the light fixtures free of cobwebs, and the woodwork on the floor and along the walls looked halfway respectable after being swept, mopped, and polished. Clarky’s station at the front desk was re-organized, old books put in order, all the flyaway papers filed. The front room was transformed into a reception area of sorts with a modestly-sized round fireplace in the middle and seating along the walls.

Trism had the boys move his office to a smaller suite on the second floor while they were at it. Not that it made that much difference for work purposes, but Trism figured it would be easier to maintain some sort of cover that way — if someone were to get to the station-house before hours, he could pretend that he’d come in early himself to get paperwork done, or he could say he’d just spent the night in his office, and nobody would know that he was really just a hair’s breadth away from being homeless.

The Sons of Shiz took no pride in restoring the station-house. They cleaned the floors one day and tromped mud all over them the next, undoing all their hard work. Clarky’s desk was no sooner organized than it was used as a makeshift gambling table. Of course, Trism shouted himself silly and made them clean it all up — but it was the indolence that bothered him, not the mud or the playing cards.

One day, Trism hit upon something. He realized that the punishments he foisted upon the boys hadn’t worked so far because they felt no guilt. It never occurred to them that they’d done anything wrong, it never occurred to them that they deserved to be reprimanded for their poor behavior. It might never have occurred to them that they _were_ behaving poorly, from what Trism could gather. No wonder they mocked him behind his back, no wonder they were able to laugh everything off.

They’d been to War, for the Unnamed God’s sake. The nitty-gritty things that Trism kept going on about weren’t important. You didn’t need to be able to stand up straight and march in formation to survive in The War. They boys knew that because they’d _been_ to The War. Trism was just being a nag, taking his frustration out on the Sons because he was a tired, lonely, faggoty old has-been with nothing better to do, and the fancy uniform and titles and protocols were just a cover to distract everyone from the fact that he was washed up and no good.

Saffrin maintained that subtle, sardonic little twist in his face every time he looked Trism in the eye. The other boys noticed. The little antique revolver Trism kept hidden in his cloak grew heavier and heavier and heavier as the days dragged on. He realized he felt naked without it. Trism found himself unable to call up the strength to address the Sons as “gentlemen” any longer.

Was there a point at which a person could become _too tired_ to sleep? Perhaps it was like being starved of food for an extended period of time — a starving person would make himself sick if he tried to eat a regular meal right off the bat. And perhaps there was a point at which a man might become so cold, that he would forever lose the ability to warm himself back up. And it wouldn’t matter how many layers of wool socks he might wear or how many blankets he might huddle under at night — he would simply never be warm again.

* * *

Trism wasn’t about to send the Sons out into the streets without being sure they could defend themselves properly. So one morning he got up early, before dawn, and took a lantern to a small park just outside of the limits of his precinct. He collected deadwood, sticks of a certain length and width, and brought a dozen pieces back to the station-house to wait in the yard.

The cathedral bells from uptown struck eight. Six of the boys were late. Trism turned to Pendarvis. “How is it that you can’t all manage to get here at the same time?” he asked. “You’re all in the same barracks, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Pendarvis replied.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Pendarvis shrugged. “Rin and them wasn’t ready when the rest of us left, sir.”

_“Rin and them?”_

“Yes, sir. It was Rin, Freethy, Mellin, let me think, Treeve, Alaric, and Angwin.”

“I’m _here_ , you great ponce,” Angwin protested.

“Oh! Sorry, Win. Was it Bors?”

“How the hell would I know?” said Angwin.

“That’s quite enough!” Trism bellowed. “Tell me, were all six of them running behind, or was it just private Saffrin?”

Pendarvis shrugged again. “I dunno, sir. I wasn’t paying them much mind.”

“Does anyone else know precisely where private Saffrin and his little cabal are?”

Gurkant raised his hand. “They said they’ll be up right after us, sir.”

Trism had to resist the urge to scream and kick the brick wall. What in the merciful fuck was he supposed to do? Hunt Saffrin down and drag him in by his ear? Unnamed God willing, today would be the day he finally lost his temper and struck one of his recruits. And please, God, _please_ let it be Saffrin.

Private Martijn took a tentative step out of the lineup. “Beg your pardon, sir, but would you like one of us to go out and find Rin and bring him back here?”

“Why the bloody fuck not?” Trism said. “Better than any idea _I’ve_ had so far.”

“Only if you think it’s best, sir,” he said, his tone dangerously close to deferential. “If you want us all here, then we’ll stay.”

No, no, no, I want you all as far away from me as physically possible — I’d send you stupid bastards to the most savage corner of Ugabu where nobody would ever see nor hear from you again, I wish you’d all get stranded so deep in the Quadling swamps you couldn’t find your way home, I hope you all get stuck in a canal boat and wind up crashing it so high up in the Scalps that they never recover the wreckage. But he didn’t say that. He just grunted and turned to sit on the steps of the station-house.

Somewhere in the turning and sitting down, he stumbled. It might have been because he was seeing so much red that he was blind to the little pebbles and divots in the yard and tripped over one. It might have been because he hadn’t eaten that morning and was growing faint. Either way, he stumbled.

Martijn caught his elbow. “Easy, sir!” he exclaimed. Even as Trism flailed around, trying to recover himself, Martijn didn’t budge. Martijn held him fast, firmly, in an iron grip. He did not allow Trism to fall.

But he moment Trism had his balance back, he tore his arm out of Martijn’s grasp. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” he shouted.

Martijn jumped and drew back immediately. “I’m sorry sir,” he said, visibly confused. “I just thought you might have tripped over something —”

“And what if I had?” Trism snapped. “It’s none of your concern whether I trip or not, I can trip if I please!”

“I — well, of course you can, sir, but —” Martijn started.

“Well, who gave you permission to stop me?”

Martijn withered. “N-nobody, sir. Only I —”

“Then bloody well _don’t_ , next time!”

Martijn fell back in line and jammed his mouth shut tight just as Saffrin and the other boys walked in.

“Sorry we’re late, sir,” said Saffrin. “Bit of a hold-up this morning, but — Lurline’s tits, what’d we miss?”

Trism rounded on them. “You missed the opportunity to make this an easy day of training, private,” he said. “I’m sorry to say that today will involve quite a bit of one-on-one instruction from me. No chances to take a leisurely stroll around the block when you’re meant to be jogging, no chances to nip off into the alley to sneak a beer or a quick smoke, no chances to do impressions of me behind my back or find new sex acts that rhyme with my name. You’ve got me, all day, and make no mistake, I am in _rare_ bad temper this morning.”

Right on cue, all the boys looked to Saffrin for their instructions. He drew himself up and said, “Right, then, sir,” and fell in.

Trism told the boys to pair off, forming two lines facing each other, and gave each of the eleven pairs one of the sticks he’d brought in from the park. “Alright, now, this is probably going to be rather different from what you’ve been taught thus far. I am going to demonstrate how to defend oneself against a single opponent who is wielding a knife, dagger, razor, or other relatively small sharp object. But here’s the rub: the goal is to neutralize your opponent, not to kill him. Does everyone know what that means?”

Private Hammett raised his hand. “Supposing we doesn’t, sir?”

“Well, to _neutralize_ someone means to get them physically under control, so they are either partially or wholly immobilized and unable to do you further harm.”

“So we pins the other fella before he knifes us, sir? But we just pins ‘im, right, we doesn’t rough ‘im up too bad.”

“I suppose you could put it that way, yes,” Trism replied.

Private Kierd spoke up next. “Is that strictly fair, sir?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, if someone were to attack us with some sort of sharp deadly object, wouldn’t it mean _they_ were trying to kill _us_?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“But then wouldn’t it be better to kill before _we’re_ killed?”

“Not necessarily,” Trism said. “If you were a civilian, you’d be well within your rights to defend yourself against deadly attack. But as soldiers and officers we hold ourselves to a higher standard.”

The entire company groaned. _Higher standard_. They were sick of the phrase.

“And there are good reasons not to kill besides all that,” Trism countered. “Suppose the person who attacks you is a suspect in a case, and turns out to be innocent? He would have died for nothing. Or suppose the person was a witness to some other crime, and in killing him, we lost valuable information forever? Or suppose the assailant was in fact the _victim_ of a crime himself, and was using a knife or similar for defense?”

“Against _us_ , sir?” Keird asked.

“I don’t anticipate that being the case, but it’s possible,” Trism said. “Public trust in the ECPD is very low these days, so a person or persons involved in, let’s say, less-than-legal activities may see us as a threat before they see us as help. We may, in our work, encounter people who are unwell and out of their senses, drunken or over-drugged, or mentally distressed for some other reason, but are otherwise perfectly innocent. And wretched as these people may seem, we are here to serve and protect _them_ , and murdering civilians willy-nilly seems rather contrary to that end.”

Keird pulled a face.

“You think I’m not serious?” Trism asked.

“No, sir, I know you are,” Keird replied. “I just think that theory is one thing and practice is another.”

“Indeed, and you may think that what I have to say is unrealistic and therefore of no use,” Trism said. “But never once in my life have I regretted _not_ taking someone’s life when I had the chance. Never once. Remember: death is the one thing you cannot undo.”

Keird nodded, and with that, Trism beckoned Saffrin forward out of the lineup. “Private Saffrin will help me demonstrate.”

He showed the boys how to hold the pretend knife properly, how to pair off, how to attack in a realistic manner, but in slow motion for practice. The first technique he demonstrated was a sort of parry-and-pivot, which involved first dodging and deflecting a forward thrust with the knife, and then taking the attacker’s arm, circling around him in a quick, fluid motion, and pinning it behind his back.

Trism handed Saffrin the prop knife. He took it and did as Trism had instructed. Trism parried the forward lunge, took Saffrin’s arm, pivoted around, pinned it in the small of Saffrin’s back and wrapped his free arm, his left arm, across Saffrin’s shoulders. It hadn’t occured to Trism that he might want to do this the other way round, use his right arm to reach up and across instead and avoid aggravating his bad shoulder, but he held position as the familiar burning cold pain worked its way down his arm.

“Drop the knife,” Trism said, and Saffrin opened his hand and let the stick fall to the ground. “That’s very important, now,” he said. “You _must_ tell the other fellow to drop his weapon.”

“But what if he don’t drop it, sir?” asked private LeMahieu.

“Then simply —” Trism took half a step backwards, pulled back on Saffrin’s shoulders and applied pressure to his pinned arm. Saffrin rose involuntarily to the balls of his feet, off balance. “Drop back like this. See, if I weren’t holding him, he’d topple over, so if I move, he has to follow. And if you keep a firm grip on his arm, you can apply incremental pressure — not enough to really hurt him, mind, but enough to get him to listen up. And you tell him again, _Drop the knife,_ if he hasn’t already.

“Alright. Now, when playing the role of attacker, if you feel like the technique is working — that is to say, if you feel like a _real_ attacker in your place would be in a sufficient state of discomfort to comply with the instructions your partner might give — you tap out like this, and your partner is to let you go _immediately_ , even if he feels as if he’s not finished with the technique yet. Is that clear? Does everyone see how that works, the tapping-out? Good. Thank-you, private Saffrin. Any questions?”

Private Talan, who’d enjoyed the privilege of private fencing lessons in his previous life, caught on almost immediately. His stances and footwork were fine, but he was hesitant to get close enough to his partner to do the technique properly. Private Loghlan, one of the shortest in the group, struggled to get private Jeames, the tallest, to go the way he wanted.

“Can’t I switch partners, sir?” Loghlan asked, bouncing on his tiptoes so he could reach Jeames’s shoulders.

“No, not just now,” Trism replied. “Suppose you’re attacked by a tall fellow. I know it’s awkward, but look, once you’ve got him, you’ve _really_ got him, see? See how far backwards he has to bend once you’ve got your arm around him? Good. Keep practicing.”

Fifteen minutes or so went by. The Sons actually seemed to be responding well to this sort of exercise — maybe it was because they finally got to do something practical, something with their hands. A few boys ended up falling over, a few were overzealous with their arm-leveraging, and few stepped on their partners’ toes, but that was all to be expected.

“Alright, hold. Hold. Now, I want you all to shift one spot to your right. Yes, so the fellow on your right, his partner will be your new partner. Go on, scooch down, and if you’re on the end, just turn around and hop in the other line — good. Alright. Now keep practicing.”

This went on for another five minutes, and Trism had the boys rotate again. And again in another five. He started to hear murmurs. “We’ve been at it for half an hour. When is he gonna teach us the fancy stuff? I could do this in my sleep. Come on, he can’t honestly think we all don’t know how to do this by now.”

“Sir?” private Thormot called from down the line, waving his hand in the air. “Sir, sir?”

“What is it?”

“Could I break and go to the loo, sir?”

“Alright, but be quick about it.”

“Thank-you,” Thormot said and dashed into the station-house to use the privy.

Thormot had been paired with Saffrin. He stood there, staring at Trism, dangling the pretend knife in one hand and picking his teeth with the other. Trism stepped forward and took Thormot’s spot. Saffrin took his finger out of his mouth.

“Hand me the knife,” Trism instructed. Saffrin obeyed, placing it lamely in his outstretched hand. “Now, Thor is right-handed, is he not?”

“Yes, he is, sir,” Saffrin said. “And I wanted to say, sir, about earlier —”

“Not another word,” Trism growled.

“Right, sir, and I don’t mean any disrespect, but —”

“Shut. Up.”

“Yes, sir, but —”

“ _NOW._ ” The boys around them paused to eavesdrop, and to watch the Commander and their Dear Leader butt heads, if they could get a decent view. “Thor is right-handed. Have you practiced against a left-handed attacker yet?”

Saffrin shook his head.

“Well, far be it from me to deny you the chance to improve. A left-handed attacker. Now.” Trism switched the stick over to his left hand, and in the next second, he lunged at Saffrin.

Saffrin dodged the lunge, but it took him another second to figure out what to do before he took Trism’s left arm and did the technique.

“Alright, not bad,” Trism grunted. “We need to lose that momentary hesitation, though. It could cost you out there in the real world.”

“Right, sir,” Saffrin said.

“Now tell me to drop the knife.”

“I don’t think I’ve quite got the grip right, yet,” Saffrin said, and adjusted his hold.

“No, you’ve got it,” Trism said. “I can definitely feel it.”

“Just a mo — if I move in like this —”

Saffrin shifted his stance, putting even more pressure on Trism’s arm and throwing him further off balance. “Saffrin! That’s enough, you can let go now.”

“Almost got it, sir —”

Trism’s shoulder gave out. Cold bolts of lightning ripped through his arm and across his chest, his vision flashed white and black in turn. He collapsed.

There was a scuffle, he could hear the Sons shouting and swearing, he could hear his own howling, his own pathetic gasps for air. He felt hands all over him, pulling him, prodding him, supporting him, lifting him, searching him, holding him, undressing him. “Get off of me!” he said.

“But sir, your arm!”

“Stop it! No! Get the fuck off of me!”

“We’re trying to help, sir!”

“No! Let go of me! _No!_ ”

“It’ll be alright, sir, I’ll call a cab to take you to hospital —”

Trism reached into his cloak and found the revolver. In one swift motion, and without opening his eyes, he drew it, cocked it, and fired.


	3. Chapter 3

Trism managed to drag himself back to the palace infirmary although he wasn’t quite sure how. His head was spinning and the gunshot still rang in his ears. He skulked inside, feeling more like an animal than a man, searching for some warm, dark den where he could hide and lick his wounds.

Sister Helper was beside herself. Trism explained to her that it was an accident — he was beyond furious with the Sons, but it _was_ an accident — but she cried angry tears as she helped him undress and get ready for Sister Surgery to see him.

The elder mont didn’t betray too much emotion as she gave Trism a once-over. She clicked her tongue and sucked her teeth in disapproval. “I’m sorry, dear love, but I’m afraid I’m going to have cut open your shoulder in order to set it this time.” Trism mentally forgave her for using the phrase _cut open your shoulder_ to describe what she was planning to do. Yes, it was that same shoulder.

The entire affair was almost painless for him. He was given a _very_ strong sleeping draft less than an hour after he arrived, and woke up two days later, shoulder bandaged and arm in a sling, just like last time. But this time Trism was in a different bed in a different room. He still had his trousers on and nobody had cut his hair. Sister Helper was at his side when he woke.

“Any news from the station-house?” Trism asked after she’d embraced him and kissed him on the cheek a dozen or so times.

“What kind of news?” she asked.

“Anything, really,” he replied. “Just news of what’s happened since I’ve been here.” Sister Helper shook her head. “No — no accidents or anything?”

She frowned. “No, but then again, if someone _were_ to report something, we’d probably be the last to hear about it. Unless you left a forwarding address at the station before you came in.”

He couldn’t tell her that he might have killed one of his own boys. He couldn’t. “There’s a chapel here, isn’t there?”

“Yes, a small one,” Sister Helper said. “There’s a service every morning and evening. Nothing too bombastic, mostly just Sister Lectern leading prayer and hymns and readings and things. Why, do you want to go?”

“No, not to service, no.”

“Well, it’s always open. You can stop in anytime.”

“Thank-you, Sis.”

“If you don’t mind me asking — why the interest in going now? You were here for two months last time, and it never came into conversation.”

“Couldn’t say,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have an answer for you when I’ve had a chance to think on it.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, thanks, I sort of want to be alone for a while.”

She smiled through her worry and doubt. “I understand.” Trism knew she didn’t.

He kept her question in mind as he made his way to the chapel. Why now? Was it because of the guilt he felt? No, not that. He’d felt plenty guilty last time he was here, he’d sat stewing in it for weeks, safe and warm in a hospital bed while he was acutely aware of the hundreds of thousands of people just outside his window who were suffering because of his poor judgment, his near-sightedness, his lust for revenge. It wasn’t guilt that compelled him to turn to the Unnamed God after decades of non-belief.

Perhaps it was more out of need to _express_ his guilt. Everyone knew how badly he’d fucked up with Mombey and the dragons and Liir. He hadn’t had to say a thing about it to anyone. It had all been out in the open. But this thing he was carrying now, this nagging suspicion, this dread, like a stone resting in his guts, it wasn’t just guilt. It was a secret. Well, not a secret, really, more like something that needed to be spoken aloud and heard by someone else, only Trism was short of anyone he could tell. So who better to listen than someone who didn’t exist and couldn’t answer him?

The chapel was empty save for one solitary Sister kneeling on her bench, hands clasped in prayer. Trism sat towards the back, careful not to make any unnecessary motions or noise. His mind was blank. He hadn’t prayed in nearly twenty years.

Unionism had been the Emperor’s chosen religion, the only acceptable mode of spiritual expression for anyone and everyone in Oz. As a Prime Menacier all those years ago, Trism had been obligated to attend weekly services, to participate in the chanting and kneeling and recitation of long, archaically-worded professions of the faith, and to be conspicuous in doing it. Needless to say that when Trism had left the EC, he’d left behind the religion, too.

He’d not given it too much thought back in the day. It was just something you did, like running drills with the infantrymen or getting your reports in before the end of the day. At the best of times, practicing the faith had been comforting. Joyous, even. Not necessarily because he believed, but because it was routine. Tradition. It was normalcy, stability. He could mark the change in seasons by the colors on the priests’ vestments and the decorations in the cathedral where he’d used to attend service. By the hymns they sang. By the sorts of candles they lit. Things like that.

Trism wasn’t uneasy in the little chapel. He sort of felt like he was in the drawing room of an old relative he hadn’t seen in years. The familiar icons shining down at him through the stained glass were like family portraits. The prayer book tucked under the bench in front of him might as well have been a storybook he’d read when he was a boy. It was all oddly reassuring.

But why was he here? Did he _really_ believe that some invisible, intangible, inaudible Unnamed entity could hear his thoughts and read his intentions, his innermost feelings? And that such an entity would not only care about what he thought and felt and said, but would care about him, personally? Did he really expect some mysterious supernatural being to grant him, Trism, some sort of favor if he could really wrack his brains, come up with something elegant and penitential to say? Had he _ever_ in his life believed _anything_ like that?

Whatever he did or didn’t believe, the words weren’t coming. He couldn’t think of a single thing to pray about. He just sat there staring vacantly at the altar for a good long time.

After a while, he worked up the nerve to give it a try. Worst case scenario, he was just a grumpy old man talking to himself. He’d been worse. But he might as well as long as he was here.

“I shot at my boys,” he murmured. “I don’t know if I hit any of them, but I shot at them. I lost it. I just — I completely lost it. For all my talk of dignity and discipline and all that — I panicked. Acted — acted out of fear. I lost my head. I shot at my men.”

Trism would never be able to forgive himself if he’d hurt any of them. Even Saffrin. If he’d so much as clipped one of them, if he’d drawn a single drop of blood —

“I mean, they’re stupid little bastards, all of them, but they don’t deserve to be dragged down with me. The way I talk to them, the way I lose my temper, they don’t deserve a commanding officer who has no idea what he’s doing, who can’t even feed and clothe himself properly, who’s two steps away from cracking up. Thirty years of experience and I can’t even run a house properly. I mean, I’ve never fixed anything in my life. I don’t know what made me think I could fix an entire goddamn city.”

“If I remember correctly, my duckie, it wasn’t entirely your decision.” Sister Surgery had been in the front row all along, and now she was looking back at him. She’d heard at least some of what Trism had said.

“No, it was,” Trism said. “I could have taken the loss and gone back to Southstairs.”

Sister Surgery shuffled back to his bench and sat next to him. “Don’t be stupid. They didn’t give you a choice, they gave you an ultimatum.”

Trism snorted. “I’m not even a month on the job and I’ve already done more harm than good. This city would’ve been better off if I’d stayed in prison.”

“Now you know that’s not true,” said Sister Surgery.

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. Those boys need you.”

“They need me like they need a hole in the head. Speaking of which —”

“Nobody got hurt, Trism.”

“So you heard from the station?”

Sister Surgery nodded. “I have. None of the recruits were injured. The way I hear, you scared the shit out of them, but that shot you fired missed every single one of them. Went straight up into the air. No harm done.”

“But how is that even possible?”

“Look where you’re sitting, my love.”

Trism frowned. “You think the Unnamed God saved them?”

“In a way. I don’t see why He couldn’t have,” she said.

“I thought you were a scientist. A woman of reason.”

“That I am, sugar plum. But this,” she indicated the chapel, “is the only discipline I can think of where reason just doesn’t factor into it, and moreover doesn’t have to.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“To be honest, it used to. I started out just like everyone else does when they’re young, armed with the twin swords of inductive reasoning and logic, eager to take a swing at centuries of dogma and superstitious hooey. But the faith doesn’t work that way, cookie. The defining characteristic of faith is that it is a _belief_ , not a fact, that transcends needing proof of any kind. Medical science belongs up here,” she tapped her forehead, “and the faith belongs in here,” she said as she patted her bosom. “And we females have to be able to keep the two separate if we’re ever going to get anywhere in life, you know. Can’t risk being labeled as overly-emotional or hysterical if you want to get any kind of respect around here.”

“So you _really_ think that the Unnamed God does things like make sure I don’t accidentally kill someone?”

“In a way,” Sister Helper replied. “I don’t believe in Big Religion, to use a term. I don’t believe that the Unnamed God lives right out in the open, doing miracles and showing off for us. I believe He lives in the little things. Places where you just might miss Him if you’re not careful. Like at the scene of accidents that could have been so much worse if someone’s aim had been just an inch off the mark.”

“But _why_?”

“Why what, darling?”

“Just — _why_? If there is a God, why in Oz would He care about what happens to the Sons and me?”

Sister Surgery shrugged. “Not a clue. Maybe it was the Unnamed God, maybe it was just a one-in-a-million coincidence. Neither can be proven or disproven. So the question really comes down to whatever you believe, dear love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this chapter, I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with it. I did think that at some point during all this, Trism's faith might come into question. Although his sort of internal dialog ended up being more of myself speaking through *him*, the way he feels about the Unionist faith is very similar to the way I feel about the Roman Catholic Church. I don't know if this is going to have ANYTHING to do with the rest of the story, but it doesn't feel out of place to me, because Trism is struggling with feelings of alienation in a lot of other parts of his life, too. Maybe having this conversation with himself will help him in his quest to redefine who he is. Or maybe not, the hell do I know?


End file.
